


The 65th Hunger Games

by sweptaway



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Child Murder, Murder, Panic Attacks, all in all he's just a 14 year old who's still very much a kid, also Finnick has ADHD . can u tell how much fun he's having, but this is Panem ...what else can U expect, i only put the warnings just in Case, just a kid who's put into this world where it's impossible to be a kid, surprisingly it's really Not that graphic, the last two of which aren't properly addressed; more just hinted at and skirted around, there are also mentions of Annie and Mags and Finnick's family just a Bit, vague pedophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweptaway/pseuds/sweptaway
Summary: "To feel bone, to see blood, it was all too human in such an unnerving way. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten."Otherwise; Finnick and his very unsteady road to "success".
Kudos: 5





	The 65th Hunger Games

Finnick had reached a dead end. With his hand to a stack of brick-shaped rocks, he sat himself down and recollected himself. It was his sixth day, he’d scored his first kill. He tried to catch his breath, silence his heart in his ears, and rinse his hands off in the ocean, watch the blood rinse off his skin, be carried away in the tide instead of dissolving.  
He didn’t like blood, he never had. There was no real reason for it, no guilt alongside the fear, but he just didn’t like it. It always left him feeling oddly hot even when he wasn’t the one bleeding, in an uncomfortable burn down his neck. Fear is his enemy, just as it’s everyone else’s. Finnick swallowed, stretched out his hand to lessen that burn, and continued to try to breathe.  
He remembered when he was a child, the first time he'd caught a fish. It didn’t bother him then, his father took the reins as soon as it was brought in. Then came the time when it was best to learn, to debone, to skin. Killing was something he knew, from a young age, meant nothing. Death was inevitable, and for Careers, killing is encouraged. It didn’t make him feel guilty, it was only life. But still, the first time he took to prepare a fish by himself ended up in Finnick dropping what he was doing and nearly throwing up before dinner could even be had.

He stepped back from the water, watching the crabs play by the shrubbery. They ran, they chased each other, they buried themselves. They made him smile. Bright blues and greens— nothing like home, but colorful enough to catch his eye, distract, and calm him. There are some blessings given by the Capitol. 

His mind slipped back.  
To feel bone, to see blood, it was all too human in such an unnerving way. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. What danger was a little fish to him? What danger was a 14 year old boy to the **18** year old boy from 11? What danger was Mishelle to Perry Trevino, the 17 year old boy from District 7 who had nearly killed Finnick in the Cornucopia, who had taken no time to dig his knife into Mishelle’s chest, erupting a final scream before she went silent?  
That knife had nearly been thrown into Finnick’s head. If he hadn’t ducked, he would’ve been the second person in the arena to die. 

Him and Mishelle had come to an inevitable promise to not become enemies. To aid each other if they could, if it came down to it. Finnick knew he let her, and her family back in 4, very far down, but what could he have done? What other option was there? This is life, there’s no changing it. Only one of them can survive, and he’d very much like it to be him. Despite his cockiness, he didn’t **like** being selfish, but the games left him with no other option. 

He’s alive. That’s what matters to him. That’s what he was taught growing up; it’s not your fault if they die. It’s a never-ending circle, it doesn’t matter the approach. All that matters is that you come out on top, that **you** come home. 

Finnick’s stomach twists in what he knows is guilt but he swallows that down, dragging his forearm over his head to slick damp hair out of his face. 

Mishelle had died days ago, there’s no use thinking on it now. No, killing didn’t bother him. And even if it had, it was best he got over that now.  
It was an accident of sorts, that’s why he’s so hung up on it. Finnick had ran into him as he was rummaging for food within the land, Rock took his abrupt stop as proof of a fight. It was fair, however Finnick acted quicker. The dagger had pointed towards him, and the only natural response was to fight back. There was shoving, and the blade wound up in Rock’s throat, sending him to the ground near instantly. 

Finnick barely calmed down from the confrontation at all before running off, which he supposed was for the best. The sound of the cannon firing as he raced back through the trees and vines felt suffocating, deafening. 

At least he had a new dagger, which now he rinsed. 

He thought it over. He’s a lucky child. Much luckier than the girl on the first day who, if he’s just now remembering correctly, had stepped off the pedestal before the games had started, leading to an immediate explosion and her death. 

No wonder he felt deafened so early on, so startled by the sound that it felt like proper shock. In a way, it reminded him of thunder. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was simply just that. But that didn’t help, not really. Cannon after cannon felt like a ticking time bomb leading down to Finnick himself. Either he’d come out victorious or he’d be swept away in a slaughter like the rest of them. 

He couldn’t think like that. 

He sat down, he watched the sun begin to set, he thought about home. 

He missed home. 

Finnick tipped his head back against the rocks, closed his eyes.  
He had taken a machete from the Cornucopia the first day. It wasn’t what he was **best** at, but it was doable. It came first on the line of weaponry lining the walls, and he needed to get out of there before he became another victim to the bloodbath. He’d used one a couple of times back home, toyed around with one in the bits of forest in 4. It was easy to cut through fruit, through vines, through leaves. It was **fun** , it glided easily even if he wasn’t good at it.  
Over the days, he’d collected and came across more weapons than he knew what to do with. Like his second day here, when Tweed from 8 had her head bashed in with a brick on the shoreline of the smaller island he’d chosen to hide out in. There was no use keeping a brick, that’d be stupid to lug around. He could’ve kept it to support a fire, but what good would that do? Draw more attention to him? Besides, if you knew how to work seafood, cooking wasn’t even that important. 

He was smarter than that. 

That’s why he deserves a **treat**. A coconut. He’s not good at climbing trees, not exactly, he never has been. Especially not easy to climb while armed. In general, palm trees are just **hard** to get a good grip on, really, and even when you do have it, they’re splintery and unpleasant. He managed good footing, though. The tree is curved, nearly entirely over, just not enough to make it easy to reach the coconuts from the ground. He managed to pull himself up, and he hates it. 

It’s worth it. 

He’s **too** smart, too bold, too proud and sure of himself, too silly. This was his advantage; he could take what made him childish, force that to the front as a tactic. They liked him in his interviews, in training, they liked him exactly like /that/. In some way, he knew his small struggle with scaling the tree would be entertaining too. Maybe there’d be another sponsor, someone could give him ointment for when he gets a sliver of wood the size of his finger in his hand. 

He didn’t, he won this. 

“Ha,” was muttered as he reached the top, wrapping his legs around the trunk sturdier so as to stay mounted while he moved, bringing his machete up. Finnick brought it down as swiftly as a lanky 14-year-old could manage, watching as the coconut he broke free hit the sand below. He grinned, considering his methods for climbing down again. That was the easier part, supposedly, but it made him just about as nervous. He got **up** without a splinter, how well would descending go? 

Not that that seemed to matter. 

No, instead, he decided to stay put. A crab caught his eye, it made his grin soften into a smile. It reminded him of earlier in the day, when they’d calmed him down. Again, the brightly-colored crabs played and charged each other, bounced off one another’s shells, of which shone reds and pinks in the lowlight. It was intriguing, it was entertaining. 

Finnick leaned his head against the trunk of the tree, keeping the machete up and away from the animals. They were funny. This wasn’t the first, nor second, time he’d seen them, they were littered throughout the arena, it was some subtle familiarity that brought him comfort. He did make a move down though, working his way back across the body, feet hitting the ground where he’d first began to climb.  
He peered around the tree, the crabs playing like they were wrestling, like how he’d always tried to do with his siblings. They seemed so happy, for a second he forgot where he was; that he wasn’t in an arena set up for murder, he was just back home, playing outside after dark. They didn’t look like anything from 4, sure, but the air about it was safe. 

Finnick decided then that he wanted to join in. He knew how crabs behaved as well as he knew how to catch them. If this was home, he’d know how to play with them, and how different could the Capitol’s creations truly be from nature? 

He crouched down, a step closer to the crabs, almost giggling as they scattered. While he knew how to pick up a crab without any ill intent, he also knew how to put on a show. He knew that the Hunger Games were for entertainment- why else would someone choose to watch them past sundown? His smile grew again, and the best choice he could make was to call these poor, poor crabs like cats. “Pspssps,” he called, not bothering to be particularly quiet. Again, they were uninterested and moved away from him. Finnick nearly pouted. “No, no,” he said. “No, come here.” There was another set of “pss” towards the animals. “Here … here crabby-crabby,” 

Safe. Silly. 

It **was** safe, until his attempts at self-entertainment seemed to irritate them, turn them against each other. What looked like gearing up for more playful fighting just as before had revealed itself to be more sinister fighting. One charged the other, Finnick stepped back. He was used to aggression in animals, it was best to get out of dodge. Aggression was **normal** , but what was much less normal was **this** specific behavior. 

The one that had been charged at had flipped, too quickly grabbing hold of and flipping the other by and with its claw, flinging it back into the tree behind the pair with such force that it rattled the leaves, which was loud enough to make Finnick jump back. 

Something about the rounder shapes of the claws varied from what was normal, their backs almost reminded him of a bubble, the colors seeming more inviting than what would show up at home- color lead to poison, most typically. But if the shape was different, why wouldn’t the colors be too? Anyone who was anyone knew about the Mutts from the Capitol. It was some pride of theirs, however he assumed there were some array of peaceful ones.  
Not these, though. From what he could tell, the impact of hitting the tree had either left the crab dead or stunned, and he wasn’t so sure that he’d like to stick around to find out. He also wasn’t so sure that he trusted the attacker( he supposed that was the right title now ) to leave him alone, especially when the point of interest seemed to shift, antennae twitching in what Finnick could only assume as detection or curiosity. It felt like a heavy threat-- he didn’t quite want to be thrown against a tree and be killed immediately. 

Instead - perhaps the foolish decision - he went back up. 

Again, yes, he was **bad** at climbing, he knew he scurried up like a scared, scolded dog, he knew he’d screamed like a little girl, and he knew realistically that going up wasn’t any way to steer off a **crab** , and he knew that he was armed and potentially dangerous, but that logic was hardly applicable to the decision of flight versus fight. 

If he stopped to think, he’d be frustrated with himself for the lack of Career training that seemed to stick. He was good with fighting, he was good with planning, but thinking quickly was something he came up short on, something he needed to work on. Though right now, he hardly had it in him to care, he was too focused on scrambling back up the tree and- yes, getting a splinter. 

The crab moved fast, he couldn’t exactly aim to kill, but it was small despite its oddness. He had a machete, that was easy to use, he thought he was easily skilled in it. Foolishly, Finnick aimed and threw the weapon in an attempt to strike the crab dead, which failed, leaving him unarmed and particularly less dangerous. He didn’t suppose he could fight the thing with his hands. Maybe he could outrun it, but above that he just wanted it dead.  
He pulled himself from the early stages of panic, shinnying further up the tree. How strong **are** these things/? Could he crush it to death? That was about his only option anyway, otherwise he’d die, be thrown by the damned thing, smashed against a tree too. At least if this didn’t work, if his idea of dropping coconuts until he heard the shell snap was a bust, he would’ve died fighting, would’ve given the Capitol the show they deserved. 

Feeling like he’s moving too slowly and too fast all at once, he’s up as high as he needs to be. Every thought’s a bit blurred in with one another, so while he can’t quite make sense of how he fiddles his hands up into the palm, or twists and pulls, he knows he **does**. It’s too frequent nowadays that moments blend in with themselves, he can’t say this is so rare, but at least he’s focused enough that he can breathe when he feels the root pulled free. Instantly Finnick retracts his hands, propping himself up on the trunk, watching over the round edge as the thick palm with even heavier coconuts fall to the ground, sand flying up on impact.  
His chest heaved steadily as his heart slammed, leaving that as the only sound he could hear. Not even a fight in the distance, or scurrying underneath the leaves. But is that just childish hope still lingering, deafening out some obvious attack? 

Did it matter? 

If it **was** just that hope, then he’d die, then this would be over. Either way, it’s destined to have some sort of end.  
Though by the time he’s down, steady feet to steady ground, he can only find two dead muttated crabs. 

Well, he needed dinner anyway. 

So much for a funeral for them, huh? Nothing quite as respectful as being uglily - perhaps riskily - dangled over an open fire without any proper tools to **really** prepare anything nice. Not that it matters, he hardly would risk any time with his guard down, can hardly imagine risking anything gathered for something he simply doesn’t **absolutely** need. He’s gotten this far for a reason; he’s smart, he knows how to ration. 

Ugly, underprepared or not, something close enough to a proper dinner like this is quite deserved, in his opinion.  
Finnick stomped out the fire, sat by the shore, and ate rather quietly now, wondering how much attention he’d previously drawn by screaming and scattering. He laughed to himself as he tore the meat apart with his fingers-- he’s still alive anyway, isn’t he? First kill, two mutts down, more weapons than he properly knows how to wield, gifts of medicine or food looming easily at his command. Most gifts he thought were fairly useless, but he appreciated the looming idea of something coming if he so needed it. He hadn’t asked for anything, though, and didn’t plan on doing such now. **Once** he’d been sent medicine for a particularly bad scrape down his leg that he managed after tumbling off a small cliff. He was grateful, but he knew sitting in salt water for a few minutes would provide similar relief. He didn’t **need** these fancy things, he’d rather them save their money. 

That was the thought he put out into the world as he finished dinner and brought himself to the best thing he could consider bed( a sleeping bag over a pile of palm fronds ); the Capitol had their cruel games, sure. But weren’t humans -- at their core -- selfish, cruel people? Even just to eat, to kill that way? And was it even the Capitol people’s’ fault for the Gamemakers’ decisions of piecing this together? No, the Capitol was innocent. They deserved to see this as a game, as a **show** , over murder. They were generous there, in their many ways. They opened opportunities for the fortunate Career districts, they send gifts and help, they allow mentorship. Testing the waters of survival of the fittest surely isn’t that big of a crime, otherwise this wouldn’t be allowed at all.  
Finnick supposed he wasn’t entirely pro-games, but he was only 14. He didn’t think it yet mattered. He was only training to stay alive. The world is harsh and cold, he knew that much. The Capitol, as much as District 4, is who cares about him. 

Two faces lit up the sky that night. Only Rock( who, upon seeing, sparked something upsetting beneath Finnick's chest. He thought about blood ) and Cheer, a young girl from 9. The deaths this year came slowly, though, and he wondered if he was truly so entertaining that there wasn’t a need for more intense antics.  
He slept soundly, and woke up to his theories proven true. 

He **is** entertaining, yes, and the Capitol is immensely generous. 

Finnick had woken up somewhat startled. There was a ringing he couldn’t place until he’d fully stood up, armed with his machete as he prepared for some battle that never came. Instead, he came to understand the ringing. More like a dinging, somewhat like the windchimes back home, and comforting. A parachute, silver and falling close enough to him to gain his attention. He wondered if it was really for **him** or if there was some other motive. To lure him into a false sense of safety, only for the parachute to belong to another tribute nearby, leading him to his death. 

But why would the Capitol ever do that? When have they led him astray? 

So he moves forward, though still continuing on in a position as if he’s ready to strike at any minute. He was used to staying on guard even if he was distracted, that just came along with the type of life he led, really, and was influenced by the kind of person he was and has always been. Focused in odd ways, spacey in others. Finnick himself finds it to be rounded, though, and thinks it makes him rather interesting despite the difficulties. He’s very good at what he’s very good at.  
And what he’s good at now is preparing for something that’s deemed quickly as unnecessary, as when the landing point for the parachute is right in his gaze, he casts aside his weapon( shoves it firmly down in the sand ) and hurries forward, his face immediately lighting with a smile as the obviousness is only made more obvious. A gift for him. Again; this was nothing he had asked for. Plus, it was only morning and he didn’t have any serious injuries that needed tending to. What could it be but a gift? 

Finnick would scold himself for being too hopeful, in some permitted but selfish way, if it weren’t for the size of the parachute -- which was ultimately bigger than usual -- or perhaps that he really didn’t have it in him right now to care what was selfish or not. In a game of survival of the fittest, isn’t **everything** selfish? Every action, every step, every breath? He was repeating himself now. Surely wishing for a gift hardly mattered, he didn’t care, and he doubted they sent a whole feast, or some pop-up nurse. That was the only thing he could possibly figure would come from a package this size. 

But he was **right**. A gift. Upon opening the parachute, his grin only grew with realization of what the gift actually was. 

Another weapon, a **better** weapon, a trident, like those he’d talked about during the interviews. Bragged, to an extent, about how good he was with them. Only this one was gold and retractable, he was pretty sure, and a bit too sparkly. Despite his hesitancy to touch the thing at all, Finnick was quick to remove it from its packaging( or lack thereof ), and weighed it in his hands before fully stretching it out, suppressing a childish giggle when it locked into place with a sturdy click.  
It was much more decorative than anything back home. Nothing at home really sparkled like **that** unless you were amongst the richest, and none of the prongs quite mirrored these because it just wasn’t quite practical. But as it goes, the weapons and the slaughter alike are all for show, and this feeds into that. 

Though he supposed a trident wasn’t **ever** the most useful for fishing, it was the easiest for him to wield. As a child, he had stolen one that his father had up on display, worked that one out for himself, and ever since then it’s simply just stuck. Out of spite, or maybe real skill. But either way, it was showy and obnoxious and absolutely perfect. Finnick ran his thumb across the decorative gems -- diamonds? -- that swirled down the base. He couldn’t imagine this being usable back home at all, even just the air itself is too salty for anything like this to properly hold up, **especially** if he were to use it for its intended purpose. 

Or, his intended purpose aside from murder, of course. 

But he could tell if he took this on any extended boat ride, it’d start to fall apart. Even still, it was exciting. This was just about the most expensive thing he’d ever seen, and especially the most expensive thing he’d ever touched. Finnick was grateful to an extent of giddiness, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. The longer he stared at it, the more reality set in; they’d given him a **gift**. They - or rather, some kind person back in the Capitol - cared enough about him to spend such a large amount of money on him. They were betting on him, rooting for him, caring for him. How could he **not** feel giddy? 

His laughter came out as a small hum now, he gathered his machete up and swung around the trident absent-mindedly, striked it down through the air without reason. Mostly it was to get a feel for the weight, to know how it worked, but Finnick would be lying if he said he didn’t swing it around for the fun of it. Just to feel a bit bigger than he is. Though, that hint of what he swears is badassery wears off, yet again leaving the machete discarded, the excitement boiling up in him to wear it’s impossible to hold still or seem particularly mature. 

No, instead, he sprints off unnecessarily loud, sometimes circling land he’d already crossed, motioning and swatting the trident like it was some god’s toy-- like whatever he did would look amazing or intimidating, when in reality he looked like a child. Silly and dumb and flinging sand and hitting tree leaves that hung low enough. He squealed a bit, but more so laughed. Laughed until he accidentally banged the trident’s base into a rock, clashing loudly and startling him backwards, realizing just now how loud he’d been. 

He’d be quieter, he’d behave. He held his new trident a bit awkwardly in both hands, grin pulling up his face again. “Thank you,” he said aloud, and though he looked down at the weapon like it was a newborn child, he wasn’t speaking to it, and much less to himself. Finnick spoke to the Capitol who he knew were listening, he expressed his gratitude. “Thank you!” He yelled, almost cheered, holding the weapon up, his athletic gangliness compared to the sturdy gold felt comical, everything a bit disproportionate when all lined up, and really, if he put just a little more weight to the wrong side of himself, he’s sure he’d fall over. 

They loved him, he was sure of it. They cared, he knew that. They wanted him to win, **now** that couldn’t be argued. And he wanted to make sure it was a show and a fight worth being proud of. 

Finnick was good at hiding, he’d always managed to be. He wasn’t a small child, nor was he a quiet one. But when he managed to hike up his pride- or rather, use his creativity for **good** , it was handy, and he **liked** to hide when things got too loud, or too unsure. He wasn’t exactly great at shrinking down, crawling into some tight space, but he was good at **finding** them. If there was something to hide in at all, he would find it, and if he fit, he’d stay.  
This past week, that was just about all he did. He’d up and leave his spot every so often, of course, that was part of this all, but when he managed to hide out for even an hour or so, it was relieving beyond understanding. 

So the next day( after, naturally, taking note of who all died that previous night. Finnick decided it was a slow day, only Perry from 7 and Romex from 3, which was something he found amusing. Both 17, gone by the 7th day. If 4’s Finnick’s lucky number, 7’s their counter. **Especially** for Perry, which after he had the attempt to strike Finnick dead, it sure felt odd to see him up there ), Finnick stayed put, safe in his little back-corner of one of many small islands in the arena. It wasn’t the smallest, but certainly the most inconspicuous. Nothing special, but it gave him enough room to hide and practice wielding.  
In Career training, he’d worked his old, much homelier trident into it despite the flack against that. It wasn’t often that an arena was equipped with the things, it wasn’t a “common weapon”, that’s what his father said. It was “difficult”. That, he understood, often the weight was entirely off for anything even close to combat, but the challenge was what made it fun, what kept Finnick’s head in the mentality he needed. This is a game, this is for fun and entertainment and bears no weight, he **shouldn’t** worry about it. 

Even with that training, he wanted to be sure. It was difficult here given that he had no dummy nor teammate willing to take the fake blows, it was all Finnick and his own imagination, giving throws to the air or to foliage and pretending that gave the same effect. In some way, he supposed it was really only to stall. He didn’t like having blood on himself for every wrong reason. Death was inevitable, but blood didn’t have to be, surely. 

That was childish. He’d been over this before, he’d get over it again. 

Dinner was fun. Despite his better judgement, he went fishing with his new trident- his **best** friend. And it worked just fine, even with knowing it wouldn’t hold up in the long-run, with any **real** ocean, this was nice. This was calm, a bit of reality that felt like home. He’d be back there soon, that’s what he repeated to himself( verbally or mentally, he had no idea ) as he stomped out the fire, setting the trident beside him as he ate and listened to the ripples of the sea. It was fake, he knew that, it was man-made and nothing that should feel calming, but there was really no use fighting it. He was grateful, wasn’t he? Very grateful.  
In some way, even with the upcoming events that had to happen for **him** to turn out on top of all of this, he felt happy. Grounded. Real. 

His focus drifted, which was also nice to let happen. His guard was down, he was sure he had nothing to worry about just yet. The night was coming to a close, the only thing he cared about were the ocean, the sky which **soon** would list off who it was that sent the one singular cannon off that day, and what was in front of him now, which as it stood, were flowers that skirted the edge of the small hill he sat. 

He didn’t move, just stayed and stared and studied from his spot, legs folded underneath of him while he rocked just a tad. In the breeze, they swayed a bit, and if he humored himself enough than he’d say they looked like they were dancing. White and light purple all against each other, in the moonlight they seemed almost indistinguishable, so closely knit that it all came off as the same color. He wondered what that was like. To be so close to something that way-- was that **really** possible, or was he just a silly kid? 

He was **definitely** just a silly kid. He held his hands to his knees, laughing a bit. He knows who’s an even sillier kid, and that makes him laugh more. 

Annie Cresta. **That’s** who the flowers remind him of, he realizes as the lowlight bounces off of the bits of yellow on every other flower. He thinks it’s hilarious, not enough to quite make him giddy, but something just before that.  
More specifically, they remind him of the flower crowns she had made, and damn near forced on his head. It was funny to him, she was stupid and childish and weird, but wasn’t **anything** that was good? Annie would like these quite a bit, he was sure of that. She’d probably be too excited, gather up too many, and be too upset when she didn’t use every last flower for some crown. Or crowns, for the two of them. 

Maybe that’d be nice. 

Maybe it’d make her happy to see him come home with an **actual** crown. Maybe that’d be gold too. Maybe she’d make one to match.  
It felt stupid, it really did, but he’d like to continue being her friend. He thinks, after all of this, it would be nice to return to 4 with something stable. His family, of course, would stay secure as it’d always been, and maybe Annie and Mags would find security in his win too. Mags would, surely, but he’s fairly certain he’d really just like to see Annie smile more often. Hear her laugh. 

That made him smile wider. 

They could play together. Annie didn’t seem like the violent type, but maybe she’d like to see his trident too. It’s pretty enough, she could look over the fact that it’s a weapon built to kill. Maybe if she spent the night he could tell her about all the **good** from his Games. He supposed they were already friends by now, or he really did hope, and he’d very much like to keep that. 

That wishful, peaceful thinking is far too abruptly cut off by a girl landing dead on the patch, crushing the flowers, blood spilling from her chest and shoulder onto the soft, nice, white petals, ruining that small bit of innocence. 

As quickly as she’d fallen, Finnick stumbled to his feet. Even before he could recognize her or who killed her, he grabbed his weapon and scattered back, eyes wide and fist just a bit too tight. He didn’t exactly run when he realized the attacker was far from dead, aimed towards -- what he could only assume was -- him. His charge was based on a stupid, too-quick fear, he knew that much, but he also knew that was just about the smartest thing he **could** do. Just as soon as he’d recognized her as the girl from 12, he dove the prongs of his trident through her chest, dragging her to the floor both through her own falling and death, and the force he put into it. 

It all flashed a bit too quickly, and just about the only thing he was grateful for was that him and Edwige were- despite her being **4** years older- about the same height. Keeping up the fast-paced reactions, he gathered his belongings and took off for another safer place, still unaware of who the first girl dead was. Damn the darkness, damn his panic. 

Tomorrow he’d do better, he told himself firmly as he brought himself in for bed that night, as he watched the sky. Edwige from 12 gone, Byrne( Vröm, it would’ve made Finnick laugh again if his heart wasn’t still splitting his ears ) from 6 gone, Francis from 2 gone. 

Francis from **2**. A career. One of those he’d partially teamed up with, made an unspoken agreement to leave the other alone, to help if need be, but let their pacts make their own routes. What does this mean for him now? Now that he saw her die, how long will that weigh on his conscience? With Mishelle gone, and now Francis too? Was it even worth it to carry as a burden anyway? With how he was raised, it hardly makes any sense to feel so upset. They’re gone, that’s the game. There’s no changing what’s already happened, there’s no use considering a future without things like this. 

But he has a trident, he has stability, he **can** win. 

Morning comes, and he becomes incredibly aware of how passive he must have seemed prior to what he hopes is to come. Hiding, running, screaming, playing— he seemed like a child. How fast would that be destroyed? Is that for better or worse? 

Better, he decides. Of course it’s better, it leaves him unsuspected as a threat, which is incredibly necessary to face the three Careers and come out on top. 

The morning is spent collecting grasses and vines and tying knots in with those and the rope and sleeping bag he’d been given through the backpacks. This was just another thing that reminds him of home to some new scale, keeps his mind present and focused. By afternoon, he’s made three nets, each of which he tested their durability how he could. Stepped in them, tore at them. They were as good as they could be, it was exciting. This would be **over** , he grinned to himself, securing the nets as traps, stepping back to study where he’d laid them out, memorizing where to avoid if it came down to that. 

He had this. He knew he did. His memory was better than he gave it credit for. 

Until, admittedly, that almost failed him. Because before he really properly knew what happened, he had tracked down the Career packs( he guessed of which had formed into one tighter group since Francis’ passing ), came up, and shoved his trident into Fox Hendrix, the boy from 1, a boy who was only a year older than him’s back. He screamed, and it was silenced when he hit rock, Finnick retracting and stabbing harder at Fox’s chest when he had moved. It felt gruesome, far too much noise came out of it, and he hated how violent it brought death. How violent **he** had brought death. But he didn’t like him moving, he didn’t like the fear that came along with the possibility he’d fight back, he didn’t like the uncertainty. 

But this was in control. 

When he took off after the cannon sounded, before the other Careers came after him, he felt in control. They'd be mad, of course they would, they were losing teammates and now they'd lost one because of a 14 year old. That's why he ran fast, why he hid. The most present he'd been since making nets was now, when he listened for footsteps or talking or **any** indicator of life. 

For awhile, he heard nothing, and continued on his path a bit less cautiously. His day wasn't normal, but he managed to spend it out of harm's way. Slow days, it was almost frustrating, but he knew his disadvantages. He was young, he was undertrained, he was too easily overwhelmed; it was **best** he took his time even if it annoyed him. 

In some way too, he was annoyed because the longer he took, the less unattached he felt. The more of a regular routine he uptook, the more human he felt. That wasn't the point of this, the point of this was to win. 

Finnick had **wanted** to take his time, but that had come to an abrupt halt. 

Quartz, from District 1, had caught him off guard that next afternoon. She **didn't see** him, and he was left with making the decision of taking her out or running off, elongating the games. It's not that he particularly cared about killing her-- how could he? He didn't know her, it didn't matter. But the cannons were loud, and if she screamed that'd be loud too. 

Did **that** matter either?  
It couldn't. 

He took a breath, steadying the trident in his hand as he peered out from behind the tree he hid. Just get it over with, it'd be worth it. 

Finnick hesitated only a second more( which should've taken longer, he should've considered his surroundings ) before charging towards her. She was taller than him, but it wasn't such a difficult angle when the prongs made contact with her side, driving her into the ground. She shouted, she kicked, and attempted to shove him off of her. It was a sort of moment that he wished he'd go deaf, he didn't like to hear the struggle.  
Again, he stabbed her, the original wound seeming to damper her too much to continue fighting for too long, only giving weak kicks and screaming. He thought, truly, he might've been able to get somewhere, but just before taking some final blow, he was startled yet again, a startle of which proved to be more than helpful. 

Her screaming had alerted the other Career boy. Hale, from 2, came running almost quicker than Finnick could pick up on. After just barely slipping away from him, he turned on his heel and took off, trident tight in his fist. 

He knew where he was going, he **knew** how to lose him. Of course, he could just skid off to another one of the arena's islands, swim until he almost lost the breath in his lungs because he knew that Hale wouldn't be able to keep up. But that wasn't worth it, that wasn't the smart decision. The smart decision was to guide him right into the traps, which is exactly what he did. 

Sharp turns, quick inclines, a missed shot by Hale by an arrow that skidded Finnick's arm and landed dully in front of him and finally he heard a trap go off, Hale shouting a slur of curses at him, which Finnick **so genuinely laughed** over. It was relief, it was safety. He smiled, and caught his breath, palm firm against the trunk of a tree. 

When he could breathe and his ears stopped ringing, he could hear the shouts and threats steady out, and he realized among Hale was a second victim. He didn’t **mean** for that, and yet here it laid out, just about perfect. Throbert— he hated the name— from 5. 

“Well, I—“ Finnick started, stumbling on his speech before it even properly began. He turned himself, hand covering where his arm bled now. Not for anyone's sake but his own, of course. “I guess today’s your lucky day!” His voice sounds too young, too genuinely excited and hopeful. He hates it. 

There are quiet murmurs amongst the two, and Finnick stands nearly awkward despite his confidence. There’s no response, so he humors himself. “Tough crowd,” he says. “The answer for .. why is; you get to look at me,” the line is delivered like a nervous comedian. It’s poor, he giggles where he shouldn’t, and not one person he’s directed this to has laughed. 

Except **maybe** someone in the Capitol. He hopes that, desperately, that’s just about the only thought that keeps him steady. 

The Capitol expects this, they want this. The more entertaining, the quicker he makes this, the better the victory. He swallows down the nerves for his performance, he faces this with a smile.  
Every action has that same bit of dream-like rapidity that he can’t shake off and can’t quite hold onto. It leaves him at the mercy of that, finding that just about the only thing that helps is to detach himself from his mind. 

That’s why he finds joy in things like the discovery of Hale from 2’s bow being too difficult to maneuver in the tight space he's given, or realizing that Throbert dropped his knife when the trap went off. There **were** bits of joy. Even in the traps themselves, because it **was** funny. They look like fish, they flop and thrash and move like fish— just about the only thing that’s off is the noises they make. Frustrated huffs or grunts with their attempts to escape. If he focused on it, he’d feel sick. 

So he wouldn’t. 

Instead, he tuned into the humor. Finnick occasionally asked them to quiet down while he pretended to carve through a shell( something he was really no good at ), he’d poke at them with his trident through the nets, he'd try to tell jokes or give them odd compliments( "you're such a catch, y'know that?" ), or he’d compliment himself for being so **smart** while he was called a traitor for going against alliance. 

He’d always been so smart. 

When he could, he avoided sticking around too long. He had to eat and not see them right there, he had to piece together how to end them off without his guilt getting worse, because frankly, the idea of letting dehydration get to them before he does **just** hurts, that’s not fair to them, he knows that, even while stalling their own deaths.  
He’s not too far away from them, he has a fire where they can see it without setting any trap on fire. Really, it’s just about turning his back to them, to what he’d done. Put a brave smile on like he wasn’t a murderer now, like he hadn’t just planned three of them. 

Why was he putting off these deaths for so long anyway? He supposed he knew why, but being overwhelmed in an area where that's just second nature feels stupid. He just wants quiet, he's tired of the death and the cannons. 

But Throbert’s came the easiest. 

He’d had a second dagger in his pocket, Finnick assumed, and cut himself free from the net. The sound of him hitting the ground snapped Finnick out of his head, back to an outer-reality, reacting quickly to what would definitely be an attack had the kid not run off. His trident pinned Throbert down when Finnick caught up, blood spilled, cannon sounded just too loudly to where he’d rather clamp his hands over his ears than continue grinning and walking too proud, and the routine carried on. 

It wasn’t until night — after he had watched his two victims flash across the screen, the anthem being another thing that just felt too loud — that he made his proper decision to give this up now. He couldn't handle nature taking its course, he couldn't run the risk of Hale getting free. 

Just after he had washed the wound to his arm again, another arrow whizzed by his ear, causing him to recoil and yelp in a pain that never came. Missed, but still, it shocked him into turning rather than focusing on the fear of it all, seeing Hale had managed to work his bow, give himself just enough room, to aim a second shot at Finnick. 

Instead of continuing his hesitation, perhaps touching his injury again and seeing how **much** he might be bleeding, or checking his ear and head and ensuring he wasn't hurt, he grabbed his machete, cutting loose the net that held Hale. It was frustrating how little he could hear, how little he felt like speaking. He could see Hale making sound, and rattling in the back of his skull, he could hear him making noise— upset and angry, mostly.  
This was annoying. He knew he wasn't hurt by the arrow, he didn't feel any injury, he only felt fear. Was he **really** that scared? Had he really lost that much confidence, let the temporary mask slip enough? It was nauseating, he refused to admit that he really might have reached that point of horrified exhaustion. He was coming to the end, maybe it was the excitement of that on top of everything else that brought him to feel like this. 

Hale hit the floor, yelled at him and aimed to grab the trident, he was enraged and just about terrifying, but then wasn’t Finnick too? Terrifying, and dumb. And he couldn’t hear a **thing** aside from loud ringing. He barely comprehended what happened between himself and Hale that gained Finnick his trident back to him.  
He knew there was a fight, he knew that. There was grabbing and hitting and **once** Finnick got the golden base slammed against his forehead, the pain once again making him try to laugh and avoid tearing up, which was inevitable. 

There was no sound. Not in the scuffle, not in celebration when Finnick won the fight and was rearmed, not when he’d stabbed Hale in his stomach after another flash of too much fear nor when he stabbed again, in his chest, because he couldn’t **hear** , he could barely focus on enough to feel the ground shake from the cannon booming. 

Really, he’d barely considered that he reached the end of these ten days-- or was it **eleven**? -- until the hovercraft showed up, startling him from all the wind it brought, all the darkness it broke. 

He knows he gripped on tighter to his trident, so tight that his hand felt numb, or that his cheeks were wet so he **must have** been crying, and that with the fear and loss of adrenaline, he blacked out. 

And when he came to, when he properly understood a thing happening, when he could hear normally( almost too loud, every bit of electricity buzzed painfully ), the smile that came on his face was real this time— it was relief and joy that he’d just go **home** , straight to where violence was no longer dire and necessary, he could simply try to find himself as a child again amongst all of this he'd done. 

He had **won**. He’d never have to see another day like that again.

**Author's Note:**

> my friends + sister + brother all helped out with the names some so i hope you enjoy them :D


End file.
